White
by actingwithportals
Summary: Day ten of my thirty-one day writing challenge. Sometimes the canvas would be full of color, and sometimes it remained white


Some days Jack would lose himself in his painting. He would sit up on the rooftop of the Lodging house for hours, painting anything and everything, experimenting with colors and shades and lighting and imagining all sorts of wondrous places in his head. In the crowded streets of New York, he felt trapped, held back by the tall buildings and smog-filled air. But as soon as he pulled out his paintbrush, he could go anywhere, be anyone. He wasn't trapped anymore. He was free to live any life he could imagine. He was free to escape from these stinking streets that held him captive. He was free to dream.

He would paint faraway places, finding images in old books for reference; places out west, where he believed true magic to exist, unlike where he lived in the east. Santa Fe was his favorite place to paint, having poured over as many books as he could manage to find on the place, staying up for hours just reading about it, and dreaming of one day seeing it for himself. It gave him hope in an otherwise hopeless world. All he needed was a paintbrush, and some paints, and a canvas to work on, and his mind would soar.

He hadn't told the other newsies about this, feeling embarrassed about his secret escape. His paintings were his, and his alone, only to be shared with the supplier of his hobby, Medda. He would even paint for her, whenever she needed his assistance. It was because of her that he had gotten into painting in the first place, more than happily willing to feed his talent and assist in his learning any way she could. She would give him books on art, show him images of other artwork for him to copy to practice techniques, critique him where he needed it, and encourage him when he did well. It was because of her that he worked so hard, that he got as far with his painting as he did. She motivated him to never give up, to only accept excellence from himself, and Jack did his damnedest to please her.

Whether the news was slow that day, one of his boys was sick, or life felt too overbearing, Jack could always turn to his paint to make him feel better, or feel something at least. It was his anchor, his tie to reality.

But sometimes . . . sometimes it didn't always work. Sometimes the pain would run too deep, or the stress too overbearing, and Jack would find himself throwing his canvas across the rooftop in frustration, unable to pull the images out of his head and into his hands. On these nights he would scream until his throat felt sore, and cry until his eyes ran dry. The others surely heard him, but no one ever brought it up, no one ever dared go and check on him, deciding it was better to leave him alone.

Did he prefer to be alone? Or would he prefer someone to be with him? Jack didn't know, but he didn't dare bring up these nights to anyone, to ever speak of them out loud. He was the leader of the Manhattan newsies, he couldn't show weakness, lest others start to think him unfit to lead. No, alone was preferable, alone requested no explanation from himself, for he had none to offer. He would simply curl up on his mattress and try to pretend he didn't exist, that the entire world didn't exist. He would have nothing to owe anyone if he weren't there; no cruel life to push through, no painful years to endure. If he didn't exist, he wouldn't have to worry about going hungry, or any of his boys going hungry, or any of them getting hurt, or sick, or the Refuge and the cruel fate that lay inside its walls. If he didn't exist, he wouldn't know pain.

But that was the kicker. Because no matter how much he hated it, no matter how much he wanted to run away, it wouldn't change anything. He would still be the same person, he would still carry the same weight of his life. If he left, who would look after his boys? Who would take care of them and make sure they stayed safe and fed? He didn't have time to be glum, he didn't have time to mope around about his life. He had a family to look after, a family that needed him.

But that didn't make the pain any easier to deal with. Not when he couldn't confide in anyone about it. Not Medda, or Race, or Specs, or Mush, or even Crutchie. He couldn't open up to any of them about this, out of fear of what they might say or think of him. Out of fear he would have to explain his deepest, most dark fears. And he couldn't bear to put that burden on them, ever.

And that's why he turned to painting, as a way to release all of that emotion that he couldn't express with words. It was healthier than anything he had tried in the past, and actually brought him some semblance of real joy. But on the days when even painting wasn't enough, he felt so lost. If he couldn't paint it away, then what was the point of himself? What was the reason behind trying at all? He didn't have an answer, and he dared not ask anyone the question. Instead, he would continue to paint, and when that failed him, he would scream into the night, hoping no one would hear him, but at the same time wishing for just that. Maybe if someone confronted him, he would finally be able to release everything he felt? Maybe he would really, truly be free?

But he would never find out. He would instead continue the path he was on, staring blankly at a white canvas and praying for some miracle of escaping from this life in his sleep. But that escape would never come, and he never could bring himself to put it into action with his own hands. Instead, he would get up in the morning, put on his hat and shirt, and continue his life as if everything were okay.

But it was far from okay, and as long as the canvas remained white, he would never truly be free.


End file.
